Our Best Parenting Moments: the Ones That Challenge Us

He couldn’t control himself.  HIs rage had reared its ugly head many, many times, and we labeled it Puberty.  His renovating brain and growing body are overwhelming him and emotional outbursts are a symptom of the wild ride.

But this time things were different.  For the last several days he complained of stomachaches unaccompanied by any other signs of illness.  At first I thought it really was a bug, then I worried he had the beginnings of appendicitis, then I settled on the “Halloween Flu”…the result of hoarding and munching a giant helping of chocolate, suckers and body part-shaped gummies.  Because despite his illness, he had a hunkering for Mexican food.  Then he called me from school.  Another nebulous stomachache.  I brought him home, fed him chicken soup and told him no, he can’t watch tv.  He was ill and needed to rest without distraction. Convinced I was finally a step ahead of my son,  I was determined to smoke out the charade, hoping he’d decide if it wasn’t fun to be home ill, then he may as well go to school.

My own Ferris Bueller?

He perked up at dinner (eating a big meal) and then, since he was feeling better, his dad and I directed him to do his kitchen duty for the week, which was washing dishes.  He hates doing dishes.  Let’s just say he let Dad know in a much more colorful way than usual just how much so.

It was ugly.  It was scary.  He was out-of-reach, that’s how deep his emotions had taken him.  And if I had taken a nice cleansing breath, I would have patiently waited for my son to settle down and then compassionately find out what was really going on.  But no.  That wasn’t in the cards because in my frustration I yelled at him.

I burst into his room, describing my own hurt and disappointment for how ungrateful he was being for everything his dad and I had given to him:  plenty of food, lots of love, opportunities.  And here he was sh*&ting all over it.  And couldn’t even complete a simple expected responsibility like the dishes.  Then he burst into uncontrollable sobs.  My son doesn’t cry easily, so when he does something pent-up is desperately being released.  His tears were seriously ugly, angry emotion, the kind with the involuntary hiccuping that rattles the brain.  It was heartbreaking to watch.  I berated myself for my harsh, scolding manner.

I know.  Teens are self-centered, emotional and parental-avoidant.  Why did I get sucked into a fight I couldn’t win?  Ugh.  And I knew it but couldn’t help but mirror his behavior and lash out, too.  So, and this sounds weird, but thank God for his heavy tears.  They were a wake-up call.  His stomachaches weren’t even candy-related.  Something deep and serious was going on.

I had to drag it out of him:  I can’t do it all, Mom.  He’s out-the-door at seven am, back home at 4:40 pm.  He does his chores, eats supper, helps clean up the dishes, and goes to bed.  This leaves next to no time for anything else, especially on the days he has extracurriculars.  No time for homework.  No time to breathe.  No time to just chill.  He is overwhelmed.  He has so much to do and no time to do it, much less just be a thirteen-year-old kid.

I think about the medical assistant from my daughter’s check up that laid on us her stressful day:  after work she runs her kids to after school activities, collects them, brings them home at 7:30 for supper and homework and then bedtime.  She was so distracted and overwhelmed she couldn’t perform her responsibilities, forgetting to get a routine height and weight on my daughter.  Her life sounded all too familiar.  And my thought?  If we parents have a hard time moving through too long a day, how can we expect our kids to handle it all?

And that’s where we are with our son, who has much less on his plate that many kids do, but it is still way too much.  He thought about playing basketball but in a burst of maturity realized how much time it would take and that it would conflict with other things he already had going on.  At the heart of his explicative-filled outburst was a realization that something needed to change in his weekly routine so he could get his schoolwork done and give his best effort to the things that matter and are important to him.

I’m proud of my son.  Not for his ability to cuss like a sailor, certainly.  But for understanding that things aren’t working as they are and that there must be a change.  His worries didn’t come to light in a pretty way, but we got there eventually.

Why do I tell this story?  I share this because of something that’s been on my mind for awhile.  What are our best parenting moments?  The are not when our kids make the honor roll or the varsity team or take first place at the science fair. These are certainly achievements that make us proud, but we make the most difference in our children’s lives when circumstances challenge us, try our patience and force us to face our parenting mistakes.  As in, I should have swallowed my own anger when my son was angry, and instead, as the metaphor goes, adjusted my oxygen mask before assisting him.  When we learn from our own missteps and failures, we can better help our kids with theirs.  After I paused and changed my tack from ire to compassion, my son and I were able to talk about what was hurting him.  These moments of honest assessment and reflection put into action are our proudest parenting moments.

And the ones our kids benefit from the most.